Bianca Welds, Contributor

The first time I met Sala I thought she was amazing. Sala was thrust into my world by a random room assignment that had her bunking with Tracey, a high school friend of mine. We were all foreign students at a seminar and the uniqueness of her Yemeni background intrigued us. We had all witnessed the changes following 9/11, and here she was, an actual Muslim, in our midst.

That weekend, she regaled us with stories of Yemeni culture and society - of female judges who went home to serve their husbands, of divorces for withholding sex after advice sessions with aunts and grandmothers.

'Don't West Indian women talk about sex?'

'Not with our mothers!' Tracey shrieked. I stifled a chuckle.

'So how do you learn to keep a man happy?' Sala asked. She laugh and tossed her black curls over her shoulder.

Every night there was some new difference; I was fascinated. Sala was all at once a rebellious teenager - smoking, drinking, snickering about sex - and a woman of the world, a newly remarried mother of three.

Six months later, my phone rang.

'Sweetie, it's Sala. I need your help.'

'Wow! Hi! How you doing?'

'You'll never believe what happened.'

She was right about that. Her tale was straight out of a Lifetime movie. Her ex-husband had taken her two older daughters back in Yemen and left the country. She had tracked him to the U.S. so she knew where they were, but could I help her pay a lawyer to file some papers to get her girls back? Well, my mother had raised me to be charitable. I couldn't refuse her plaintive cries for help.

I hear she got help from the state police and rescued the kids.

Another two months passed and I found myself one Sunday at the airport waiting for Sala. She had called me in distress the night before.

'Oh God! I don't know what to do!'

'What's wrong?'

'My husband is driving me crazy. He's not working and all we do is fight.'

'That sucks. How are the kids?'

'I need a break. Can I come and stay with you for a few days?'

'Umm'

'Please, sweetie?'

'Well, I guess -'

'Great! Meet me at the airport tomorrow at 3:15.'

Click.

So there I stood, not quite sure why she had chosen me. Checking my watch, I realised that I had already been waiting for 20 minutes. Then, as I was about to go look for a flight arrivals board I heard my name being called and Sala swept through the doors, looking just as I remembered her - except for the baby in her arms and the two adorable little girls behind her pulling a suitcase between them.

After that weekend I heard from Sala nearly every day.

'Honey, could you write a reference for me?'

'Sweetie, would you mind picking something up for me?'

'See if you can get that for the girls, OK?'

Then there were the calls at two in the morning that usually involved her blasting her husband for something or the other. I lost a lot of sleep over a man that wasn't mine.

The requests for money continued - Sala often needed help with her bills. Apparently her husband had given up the search for employment. This was at the root of most of those late night calls.

During the year that I supported Sala, I managed to complete my studies. It was during finals' week that I was forced to acknowledge my role in the relationship.

'Hi, sweetie.'

'Hi, Sala.'

'I wanted to know - '

'I'm in the middle of studying. I really can't talk now.'

'Well, I need you to help me out. You see -'

'Sala, I really can't. This is my last exam.'

'It's just a little thing.'

'No, Sala. I can't -'

'I can't believe you'd do this to me now. What am I supposed to do?'

'Well.'

'And top of everything else, you're going to leave soon. Who's going to help me then?'

That was the moment that I got it. It was also the last time I spoke to Sala. I passed my exams and graduated two weeks later. Walking across the platform I felt lighter than air thinking of all I was leaving behind. Less than a week later I returned home. I never told my family about Sala. I knew they wouldn't understand how I could let myself be taken advantage of like that.

I heard early the next year that Sala had gone back to Yemen. It seems she had some trouble with U.S. Immigrations when her husband disappeared off their radar. I guess he decided to try his luck in the land of opportunity, after all.

It was another few months before I found out what had happened to Sala. No phone call - this time it was a small, hand-addressed envelope. A folded note fell out of the enclosed card. The card turned out to be an invitation to Sala's wedding. The note read:

Hi sweetie, As you can guess, I'm doing well: I met a wonderful man and the girls adore him. I'll understand if you can't make it to the wedding. I was wondering though.'

That was three years ago. I didn't make it to the wedding.

I learnt my lesson and have managed to not get into a situation like the one with Sala again. But there are nights, when I'm alone at home, having a quiet evening, and the phone rings; and, as I rise to answer it, part of me still hopes to hear a chirpy, 'Hi, Sweetie!'

- Bianca Welds